Chapter XXX: Prologue (3)

9 The easy ringlets of her nut-brown hair
What ne a man should see did sweetly hide,
Which on her milk-white bodykin so fair
Did show like brown streams fouling the white tide,
Or veins of brown hue in a marble cuarr,[7]
Which by the traveller is kenned from far.

10 Astounded mickle there I silent lay,
Still scauncing wondrous at the walking sight;
My senses forgard,[8] nor could run away,
But was not forstraught[9] when she did alight
Anigh to me, dressed up in naked view,
Which might in some lascivious thoughts abrew.

11 But I did not once think of wanton thought;
For well I minded what by vow I hete,
And in my pocket had a crochee[10] brought;
Which in the blossom would such sins anete;
I looked with eyes as pure as angels do,
And did the every thought of foul eschew.

12 With sweet semblate, and an angel's grace,
She 'gan to lecture from her gentle breast;
For Truth's own wordes is her minde's face,
False oratories she did aye detest:
Sweetness was in each word she did ywreene,
Though she strove not to make that sweetness seen.

13 She said, 'My manner of appearing here
My name and slighted myndruch may thee tell;
I'm Truth, that did descend from heaven-were,
Goulers and courtiers do not know me well;
Thy inmost thoughts, thy labouring brain I saw,
And from thy gentle dream will thee adawe.[11]

14 Full many champions, and men of lore,
Painters and carvellers[12] have gained good name,
But there's a Canynge to increase the store,
A Canynge who shall buy up all their fame.
Take thou my power, and see in child and man
What true nobility in Canynge ran.'

15 As when a bordelier[13] on easy bed,
Tired with the labours maynt[14] of sultry day,
In sleepe's bosom lays his weary head,
So, senses sunk to rest, my body lay;
Eftsoons my sprite, from earthly bands untied,
Emerged in flanched air with Truth aside.

16 Straight was I carried back to times of yore,
Whilst Canynge swathed yet in fleshly bed,
And saw all actions which had been before,
And all the scroll of fate unravelled;
And when the fate-marked babe had come to sight,
I saw him eager gasping after light.

17 In all his shepen gambols and child's play,
In every merry-making, fair, or wake,
I knew a purple light of wisdom's ray;
He eat down learning with a wastle cake.
As wise as any of the aldermen,
He'd wit enough to make a mayor at ten.

18 As the dulce[15] downy barbe began to gre,
So was the well thighte texture of his lore
Each day enheedynge mockler[16] for to be,
Great in his counsel for the days he bore.
All tongues, all carols did unto him sing,
Wond'ring at one so wise, and yet so ying.[17]

19 Increasing in the years of mortal life,
And hasting to his journey unto heaven,
He thought it proper for to choose a wife,
And use the sexes for the purpose given.
He then was youth of comely semelikede,
And he had made a maiden's heart to bleed.

20 He had a father (Jesus rest his soul!)
Who loved money, as his cherished joy;
He had a brother (happy man be's dole!)
In mind and body his own father's boy:
What then could Canynge wishen as a part
To give to her who had made exchange of heart?

21 But lands and castle tenures, gold and bighes,[18]
And hoards of silver rusted in the ent,[19]
Canynge and his fair sweet did that despise,
To change of truly love was their content;
They lived together in a house adigne,[20]
Of good sendaument commily and fine.

22 But soon his brother and his sire did die,
And left to William states and renting-rolls,
And at his will his brother John supply.
He gave a chauntry to redeem their souls;
And put his brother into such a trade,
That he Lord Mayor of London town was made.

23 Eftsoons his morning turned to gloomy night;
His dame, his second self, gave up her breath,
Seeking for eterne life and endless light,
And slew good Canynge; sad mistake of Death!
So have I seen a flower in summer-time
Trod down and broke and wither in its prime.

24 Near Redcliff Church (oh, work of hand of Heaven!
Where Canynge showeth as an instrument)
Was to my bismarde eyesight newly given;
'Tis past to blazon it to good content.
You that would fain the festive building see
Repair to Redcliff, and contented be.

25 I saw the myndbruch of his notte soul
When Edward menaced a second wife;
I saw what Pheryons in his mind did roll:
Now fixed from second dames, a priest for life,
This is the man of men, the vision spoke;
Then bell for even-song my senses woke.

[1] 'Amenged:' mixed. [2] 'Wraytes:' flags. [3] 'Swithin:' quickly. [4] 'Ywrynde:' covered. [5] 'Faitour:' vagrant. [6] 'Digne:' worthy. [7] 'Cuarr:' quarry. [8] 'Forgard:' lose. [9] 'Forstraught:' distracted. [10] 'A crochee:' a cross. [11] 'Adawe:' awake. [12] 'Carvellers:' sculptors. [13] 'A bordelier:' a cottager. [14] 'Maynt:' many. [15] 'Dulce:' sweet. [16] 'Mockler:' more. [17] 'Ying:' young. [18] 'Bighes:' jewels. [19] 'Ent:' bag. [20] 'Adigne:' worthy.

KENRICK.

TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON.

When winter yelled through the leafless grove; when the black waves rode over the roaring winds, and the dark-brown clouds hid the face of the sun; when the silver brook stood still, and snow environed the top of the lofty mountain; when the flowers appeared not in the blasted fields, and the boughs of the leafless trees bent with the loads of ice; when the howling of the wolf affrighted the darkly glimmering light of the western sky; Kenrick, terrible as the tempest, young as the snake of the valley, strong as the mountain of the slain; his armour shining like the stars in the dark night, when the moon is veiled in sable, and the blasting winds howl over the wide plain; his shield like the black rock, prepared himself for war.

Ceolwolf of the high mountain, who viewed the first rays of the morning star, swift as the flying deer, strong as the young oak, fierce as an evening wolf, drew his sword; glittering like the blue vapours in the valley of Horso; terrible as the red lightning, bursting from the dark-brown clouds; his swift bark rode over the foaming waves, like the wind in the tempest; the arches fell at his blow, and he wrapped the towers in flames: he followed Kenrick, like a wolf roaming for prey.

Centwin of the vale arose, he seized the massy spear; terrible was his voice, great was his strength; he hurled the rocks into the sea, and broke the strong oaks of the forest. Slow in the race as the minutes of impatience. His spear, like the fury of a thunderbolt, swept down whole armies; his enemies melted before him, like the stones of hail at the approach of the sun.

Awake, O Eldulph! thou that sleepest on the white mountain, with the fairest of women. No more pursue the dark-brown wolf: arise from the mossy bank of the falling waters; let thy garments be stained in blood, and the streams of life discolour thy girdle; let thy flowing hair be hid in a helmet, and thy beauteous countenance be writhed into terror.

Egward, keeper of the barks, arise like the roaring waves of the sea: pursue the black companies of the enemy.

Ye Saxons, who live in the air and glide over the stars, act like yourselves.

Like the murmuring voice of the Severn, swelled with rain, the Saxons moved along; like a blazing star the sword of Kenrick shone among the Britons; Tenyan bled at his feet; like the red lightning of heaven he burnt up the ranks of his enemy.

Centwin raged like a wild boar. Tatward sported in blood; armies melted at his stroke. Eldulph was a flaming vapour; destruction sat upon his sword. Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock before the sword of Mervin.

Egward pursued the slayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin smoked on his hand.

Like the rage of a tempest was the noise of the battle; like the roaring of the torrent, gushing from the brow of the lofty mountain.

The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the howling winds.

Ye virgins! arise and welcome back the pursuers; deck their brows with chaplets of jewels; spread the branches of the oak beneath their feet. Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon his crooked sword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his knees are red with the gore of the foe.

Ye sons of the song, sound the instruments of music; ye virgins, dance around him.

Costan of the lake, arise, take thy harp from the willow, sing the praise of Kenrick, to the sweet sound of the white waves sinking to the foundation of the black rock.

Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious.

FEBRUARY, AN ELEGY.

1 Begin, my muse, the imitative lay,
Aeonian doxies, sound the thrumming string;
Attempt no number of the plaintive Gray;
Let me like midnight cats, or Collins, sing.

2 If in the trammels of the doleful line,
The bounding hail or drilling rain descend;
Come, brooding Melancholy, power divine,
And every unformed mass of words amend.

3 Now the rough Goat withdraws his curling horns,
And the cold Waterer twirls his circling mop:
Swift sudden anguish darts through altering corns,
And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop.

4 Now infant authors, maddening for renown,
Extend the plume, and hum about the stage,
Procure a benefit, amuse the town,
And proudly glitter in a title-page.

5 Now, wrapped in ninefold fur, his squeamish Grace
Defies the fury of the howling storm;
And whilst the tempest whistles round his face,
Exults to find his mantled carcase warm.

6 Now rumbling coaches furious drive along,
Full of the majesty of city dames,
Whose jewels, sparkling in the gaudy throng,
Raise strange emotions and invidious flames.

7 Now Merit, happy in the calm of place,
To mortals as a Highlander appears,
And conscious of the excellence of lace,
With spreading frogs and gleaming spangles glares:

8 Whilst Envy, on a tripod seated nigh,
In form a shoe-boy, daubs the valued fruit,
And darting lightnings from his vengeful eye,
Raves about Wilkes, and politics, and Bute.

9 Now Barry, taller than a grenadier,
Dwindles into a stripling of eighteen;
Or sabled in Othello breaks the ear,
Exerts his voice, and totters to the scene.

10 Now Foote, a looking-glass for all mankind,
Applies his wax to personal defects;
But leaves untouched the image of the mind;--
His art no mental quality reflects.

11 Now Drury's potent king extorts applause,
And pit, box, gallery, echo, 'How divine!'
Whilst, versed in all the drama's mystic laws,
His graceful action saves the wooden line.

12 Now--but what further can the muses sing?
Now dropping particles of water fall;
Now vapours riding on the north wind's wing,
With transitory darkness shadows all.

13 Alas! how joyless the descriptive theme,
When sorrow on the writer's quiet preys;
And like a mouse in Cheshire cheese supreme,
Devours the substance of the lessening bays.

14 Come, February, lend thy darkest sky,
There teach the wintered muse with clouds to soar:
Come, February, lift the number high;
Let the sharp strain like wind through alleys roar.

15 Ye channels, wandering through the spacious street,
In hollow murmurs roll the dirt along,
With inundations wet the sabled feet,
Whilst gouts, responsive, join the elegiac song.

16 Ye damsels fair, whose silver voices shrill
Sound through meandering folds of Echo's horn;
Let the sweet cry of liberty be still,
No more let smoking cakes awake the morn.

17 O Winter! put away thy snowy pride;
O Spring! neglect the cowslip and the bell;
O Summer! throw thy pears and plums aside;
O Autumn! bid the grape with poison swell.

18 The pensioned muse of Johnson is no more!
Drowned in a butt of wine his genius lies.
Earth! Ocean! Heaven! the wondrous loss deplore,
The dregs of nature with her glory dies.

19 What iron Stoic can suppress the tear!
What sour reviewer read with vacant eye!
What bard but decks his literary bier!--
Alas! I cannot sing--I howl--I cry!

LORD LYTTELTON.

Dr Johnson said once of Chesterfield, 'I thought him a lord among wits, but I find him to be only a wit among lords.' And so we may say of Lord Lyttelton, 'He is a poet among lords, if not a lord among poets.' He was the son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton, of Hagley in Worcestershire, and was born in 1709. He went to Eton and Oxford, where he distinguished himself. Having gone the usual grand tour, he entered Parliament, and became an opponent of Sir Robert Walpole. He was made secretary to the Prince of Wales, and was in this capacity useful to Mallett and Thomson. In 1741, he married Lucy Fortescue, of Devonshire, who died five years afterwards. Lyttelton grieved sincerely for her, and wrote his affecting 'Monody' on the subject. When his party triumphed, he was created a Lord of the Treasury, and afterwards Chancellor of the Exchequer, with a peerage. He employed much of his leisure in literary composition, writing a good little book on the Conversion of St Paul, a laboured History of Henry II., and some verses, including the stanza in the 'Castle of Indolence' describing Thomson--

'A bard there dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,' &c.--

and a very spirited prologue to Thomson's 'Coriolanus,' which was written after that author's death, and says of him,

--'His chaste muse employed her heaven-taught lyre
None but the noblest passions to inspire:
Not one immoral, one corrupted thought,
_One line which, dying he could wish to blot_.'

Lyttelton himself died August 22, 1773, aged sixty-four. His History is now little read. It took him, it is said, thirty years to write it, and he employed another man to point it--a fact recalling what is told of Macaulay, that he sent the first volume of his 'History of England' to Lord Jeffrey, who overlooked the punctuation and criticised the style. Of a series of Dialogues issued by this writer, Dr Johnson remarked, with his usual pointed severity, 'Here is a man telling the world what the world had all his life been telling him.' His 'Monody' expresses real grief in an artificial style, but has some stanzas as natural in the expression as they are pathetic in the feeling.

FROM THE 'MONODY.'

At length escaped from every human eye, From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, I now may give my burdened heart relief, And pour forth all my stores of grief; Of grief surpassing every other woe, Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love Can on the ennobled mind bestow, Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

* * * * *

In vain I look around
O'er all the well-known ground,
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
Where oft we used to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
We saw the summer sun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can she now be found:
In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy,
But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.

* * * * *

Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns By your delighted mother's side: Who now your infant steps shall guide? Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue would have formed your youth, And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth? O loss beyond repair! O wretched father! left alone, To weep their dire misfortune and thy own: How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with woe, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Perform the duties that you doubly owe! Now she, alas! is gone, From folly and from vice their helpless age to save?

* * * * *

O best of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms
Were yielded to my arms:
How can my soul endure the loss of thee?
How in the world, to me a desert grown,
Abandoned and alone,
Without my sweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely smile,
The dear reward of every virtuous toil,
What pleasures now can palled ambition give?
Even the delightful sense of well-earned praise,
Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise.

For my distracted mind
What succour can I find?
On whom for consolation shall I call?
Support me, every friend;
Your kind assistance lend,
To bear the weight of this oppressive woe.
Alas! each friend of mine,
My dear departed love, so much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, the best relief
In every other grief,
Are now with your idea saddened all:
Each favourite author we together read
My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead.

We were the happiest pair of human kind;
The rolling year its varying course performed,
And back returned again;
Another and another smiling came,
And saw our happiness unchanged remain:
Still in her golden chain
Harmonious concord did our wishes bind:
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same.
O fatal, fatal stroke,
That all this pleasing fabric love had raised
Of rare felicity,
On which even wanton vice with envy gazed,
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had formed,
With soothing hope, for many a future day,
In one sad moment broke!--
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay;
Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,
Or against his supreme decree
With impious grief complain;
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade,
Was his most righteous will--and be that will obeyed.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

We know very little of the history of this pleasing poet. He was born in 1729, the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin. At the age of seventeen he wrote a farce; entitled 'Love in a Mist,' and shortly after came to Britain as an actor. He was for a long time a performer in Digges' company in Edinburgh, and subsequently resided in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Here he seems to have fallen into distressed circumstances, and was supported by a benevolent printer, at whose house he died in 1773. His poetry is distinguished by a charming simplicity. This characterises 'Kate of Aberdeen,' given below, and also his 'Content: a Pastoral,' in which he says allegorically--

'Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,
So simple yet sweet were her charms!
I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek,
And locked the dear maid in my arms.

'Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.'

MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN.

1 The silver moon's enamoured beam
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go, balmy sleep,
(Tis where you've seldom been,)
May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.

2 Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,
Till Morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promised May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,
The promised May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

3 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love:
And see--the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green:
Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

4 Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:
For see the rosy May draws nigh;
She claims a virgin queen!
And hark, the happy shepherds cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

ROBERT FERGUSSON.

This unfortunate Scottish bard was born in Edinburgh on the 17th (some say the 5th) of October 1751. His father, who had been an accountant to the British Linen Company's Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four children. Robert spent six years at the grammar schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, went for a short period to Edinburgh College, and then, having obtained a bursary, to St Andrews, where he continued till his seven- teenth year. He was at first designed for the ministry of the Scottish Church. He distinguished himself at college for his mathematical knowledge, and became a favourite of Dr Wilkie, Professor of Natural Philosophy, on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early discovered a passion for poetry, and collected materials for a tragedy on the subject of Sir William Wallace, which he never finished. He once thought of studying medicine, but had neither patience nor funds for the needful preliminary studies. He went away to reside with a rich uncle, named John Forbes, in the north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, and poor Fergusson unfortunately quarrelled; and, after residing some months in his house, he left it in disgust, and with a few shillings in his pocket proceeded southwards. He travelled on foot, and such was the effect of his vexation and fatigue, that when he reached his mother's house he fell into a severe fit of illness.

He became, on his recovery, a copying-clerk in a solicitor's, and afterwards in a sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute to _Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_. We remember in boyhood reading some odd volumes of this production, the general matter in which was inconceivably poor, relieved only by Fergusson's racy little Scottish poems. His evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, amidst the gay and dissipated youth of the metropolis, to whom he was the 'wit, songster, and mimic.' That his convivial powers were extraordinary, is proved by the fact of one of his contemporaries, who survived to be a correspondent of Burns, doubting if even he equalled the fascination of Fergusson's converse. Dissipation gradually stole in upon him, in spite of resolutions dictated by remorse. In 1773, he collected his poems into a volume, which was warmly received, but brought him, it is believed, little pecuniary benefit. At last, under the pressure of poverty, toil, and intemperance, his reason gave way, and he was by a stratagem removed to an asylum. Here, when he found himself and became aware of his situation, he uttered a dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled look around his cell. The history of his confinement was very similar to that of Nat Lee and Christopher Smart. For instance, a story is told of him which is an exact duplicate of one recorded of Lee. He was writing by the light of the moon, when a thin cloud crossed its disk. 'Jupiter, snuff the moon,' roared the impatient poet. The cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the light. 'Thou stupid god,' he exclaimed, 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By and by he became calmer, and had some affecting interviews with his mother and sister. A removal to his mother's house was even contemplated, but his constitution was exhausted, and on the 16th of October 1774, poor Fergusson breathed his last. It is interesting to know that the New Testament was his favourite companion in his cell. A little after his death arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr Burnet, who had made a fortune in the East Indies, wishing him to come out to India, and enclosing a remittance of L100 to defray the expenses of the journey.

Thus in his twenty-fourth year perished Robert Fergusson. He was buried in the Canongate churchyard, where Burns afterwards erected a monument to his memory, with an inscription which is familiar to most of our readers.

Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,' are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him--there is nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Saturday Night' springs up aloft to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too, with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch- man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough, to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay.

THE FARMER'S INGLE.

Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho, Ante locum, si frigus erit.--VIRG.

1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1]
Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre;
Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4]
An' lusty lasses at the dightin'[5] tire;
What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld,
An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain;
Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld,
Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poortith o' the plain;
Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain.

2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,
Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift,
Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill,
An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift.
The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find,
Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een,
That ilka turn is handled to his mind;
That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean;
For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean.

3 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require
A heartsome meltith,[14] an' refreshin' synd[15]
O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire:
Sair wark an' poortith downa[16] weel be joined.
Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle[17] reeks;
I' the far nook the bowie[18] briskly reams;
The readied kail[19]stands by the chimley cheeks,
An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams,
Whilk than the daintiest kitchen[20]nicer seems.

4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear:
Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand,
They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare,
Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand.
Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day;
At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound;
Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23]
Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound,
Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound.

5 On siccan food has mony a doughty deed
By Caledonia's ancestors been done;
By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed
In brulzies[24]frae the dawn to set o' sun.
'Twas this that braced their gardies[25] stiff an' strang;
That bent the deadly yew in ancient days;
Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird[26] alang;
Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays;
For near our crest their heads they dought na raise.

6 The couthy cracks[27] begin whan supper's owre;
The cheering bicker[28] gars them glibly gash[29]
O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour,
Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.[30]
'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on;
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride;
An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son,
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride;
The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide.

7 The fient a cheep[31]'s amang the bairnies now;
For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane:
Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou,
Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.[32]
In rangles[33] round, before the ingle's low,
Frae gudame's[34] mouth auld-warld tales they hear,
O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:[35]
O' ghaists, that wine[36] in glen an kirkyard drear,
Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear!

8 For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be
Sent frae the deil to fleetch[37] us to our ill;
That kye hae tint[38] their milk wi' evil ee;
An' corn been scowder'd[39] on the glowin' kiln.
O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn,
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear;
Wi' eild[40] our idle fancies a' return,
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly[41] fear;
The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near.

9 Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days,
Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave;
Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays;
Her e'enin stent[42] reels she as weel's the lave.[43]
On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw,
Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy,
Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw
Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;[44]
Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.[45]

10 In its auld lerroch[46] yet the deas[47] remains,
Where the gudeman aft streeks[48] him at his ease;
A warm and canny lean for weary banes
O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas.
Round him will baudrins[49] an' the collie come,
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee,
To him wha kindly flings them mony a crumb
O' kebbuck[50] whang'd, an' dainty fadge[51] to prie;[52]
This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee.

11 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak:
What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till;
How big a birn[53] maun lie on bassie's[54] back,
For meal an' mu'ter[55] to the thirlin' mill.
Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids
Glower through the byre, an' see the hawkies[56] bound;
Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,[57]
An' ca' the laiglen's[58] treasure on the ground;
Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

12 Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,[59]
Their joints to slack frae industry a while;
The leaden god fa's heavy on their een,
An hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil:
The cruizy,[60] too, can only blink and bleer;
The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow;
Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer,
Upo' the cod[61] to clear their drumly pow,[62]
Till waukened by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

13 Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe,
Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year!
Lang may his sock[63] and cou'ter turn the gleyb,[64]
An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear!
May Scotia's simmers aye look gay an' green;
Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed!
May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,[65]
Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed;
An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!

[1] 'Keeks:' peeps. [2] 'Owsen:' oxen. [3] 'Sair dung:' fatigued. [4] 'Steeks:' shuts. [5] 'Dightin':' winnowing. [6] 'What bangs fu' leal:' what shuts out most comfortably. [7] 'Gars:' makes. [8] 'Fley'd:' frightened. [9] 'Wi' divots theekit:' thatched with turf. [10] 'Chimley:' chimney. [11] 'Smeek:' smoke. [12] 'Hallan:' the inner wall of a cottage. [13] 'Cosh:' comfortable. [14] 'Meltith:' meal. [15] 'Synd:' drink. [16] 'Downa:' should not. [17] 'Girdle:' a flat iron for toasting cakes. [18] 'Bowie:' beer-barrel. [19] 'Kail:' broth with greens. [20] 'Kitchen:' anything eaten with bread. [21] 'Gabs:' palates. [22] 'Eident:' assidious. [23] 'Spae:' fortell. [24] 'Brulzies:' contests. [25] 'Gardies:' arms. [26] 'Yird:' earth. [27] 'Cracks:' pleasant talk. [28] 'Bicker:' the cup. [29] 'gash:' debat. [30] 'Their mailins' produce hash:' destroy the produce of their farms. [31] 'The fient a cheep:' not a whimper. [32] 'Maen:' moan. [33] 'Rangles:' circles. [34] 'Gudame's:' grandame. [35] 'Wirrikow:' scare-crow. [36] 'Win:' abide. [37] 'Fleetch:' entice. [38] 'Tint:' lost. [39] 'Scowder'd:' scorched. [40] 'Eild:' age. [41] 'Bairnly:' childish. [42] 'Stent:' task. [43] 'Lave:' the rest. [44] 'Oy:' grand child. [45] 'Her foy:' her farewell entertainment. [46] 'Lerroch:'corner. [47] 'Deas:' bench. [48] 'Streeks:' stretches. [49] 'Baudrins:' the cat. [50] 'Kebbuck:' cheese. [51] 'Fadge:' loaf. [52] 'To prie:' to taste. [53] 'Birn:' burden. [54] 'Bassie:' the horse. [55] 'Mu'ter:' the miller's perquisite. [56] 'Hawkies:'cows. [57] 'Tids:' fits. [58] 'The laiglen: 'the milk-pail. [59] 'To green:' to long. [60] 'The cruizy:' the lamp. [61] 'Cod:' pillow. [62] 'Drumly pow:' thick heads. [63] 'Sock:' ploughshare. [64] 'Gleyb:' soil. [65] 'Bien: 'comfortable.

DR WALTER HARTE.

Campbell, in his 'Specimens,' devotes a large portion of space to Dr Walter Harte, and has quoted profusely from a poem of his entitled 'Eulogius.' We may give some of the best lines here:--

'This spot for dwelling fit Eulogius chose,
And in a month a decent homestall rose,
Something between a cottage and a cell;
Yet virtue here could sleep, and peace could dwell.

'The site was neither granted him nor given;
'Twas Nature's, and the ground-rent due to Heaven.

Wife he had none, nor had he love to spare,--
An aged mother wanted all his care.
They thanked their Maker for a pittance sent,
Supped on a turnip, slept upon content.'

Again, of a neighbouring matron, who died leaving Eulogius money--

'This matron, whitened with good works and age,
Approached the Sabbath of her pilgrimage;
Her spirit to himself the Almighty drew,
_Breathed on the alembic, and exhaled the dew_.'

And once more--

'Who but Eulogius now exults for joy?
New thoughts, new hopes, new views his mind employ;
Pride pushed forth buds at every branching shoot,
And virtue shrank almost beneath the root.
High raised on fortune's hill, new Alps he spies,
O'ershoots the valley which beneath him lies,
Forgets the depths between, and travels with his eyes.'

EDWARD LOVIBOND.

Hampton in Middlesex was the birthplace of our next poet, Edward Lovibond. He was a gentleman of fortune, who chiefly employed his time in rural occupations. He became a director of the East India Company. He helped his friend Moore in conducting the periodical called _The World_, to which he contributed several papers, including the very pleasing poem entitled 'The Tears of Old May-Day.' He died in 1775.

THE TEARS OF OLD MAY-DAY.

WRITTEN ON THE REFORMATION OF THE CALENDAR IN 1754.

1 Led by the jocund train of vernal hours
And vernal airs, uprose the gentle May;
Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flowers
That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray.

2 Her locks with heaven's ambrosial dews were bright,
And amorous zephyrs fluttered on her breast:
With every shifting gleam of morning light,
The colours shifted of her rainbow vest.

3 Imperial ensigns graced her smiling form,
A golden key and golden wand she bore;
This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm,
And that unlocks the summer's copious store.

4 Onward in conscious majesty she came,
The grateful honours of mankind to taste:
To gather fairest wreaths of future fame,
And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past.

5 Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite
Her virgin votaries, and at early dawn,
Sacred to May and love's mysterious rite,
Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled lawn.

6 To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride
Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine:
Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide,
A purer offering at her rustic shrine.

7 No more the Maypole's verdant height around
To valour's games the ambitious youth advance;
No merry bells and tabor's sprightlier sound
Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance.

8 Sudden in pensive sadness drooped her head,
Faint on her cheeks the blushing crimson died--
'O chaste victorious triumphs! whither fled?
My maiden honours, whither gone?' she cried.

9 Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born,
The earth and smiling ocean saw me rise,
With time coeval and the star of morn,
The first, the fairest daughter of the skies.

10 Then, when at Heaven's prolific mandate sprung
The radiant beam of new-created day,
Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung,
Hailed the glad dawn, and angels called me May.

11 Space in her empty regions heard the sound,
And hills, and dales, and rocks, and valleys rung;
The sun exulted in his glorious round,
And shouting planets in their courses sung.

12 For ever then I led the constant year;
Saw youth, and joy, and love's enchanting wiles;
Saw the mild graces in my train appear,
And infant beauty brighten in my smiles.

13 No winter frowned. In sweet embrace allied,
Three sister seasons danced the eternal green;
And Spring's retiring softness gently vied
With Autumn's blush, and Summer's lofty mien.

14 Too soon, when man profaned the blessings given,
And vengeance armed to blot a guilty age,
With bright Astrea to my native heaven
I fled, and flying saw the deluge rage;

15 Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams,
While sounding billows from the mountains rolled,
With bitter waves polluting all my streams,
My nectared streams, that flowed on sands of gold.

16 Then vanished many a sea-girt isle and grove,
Their forests floating on the watery plain:
Then, famed for arts and laws derived from Jove,
My Atalantis sunk beneath the main.

17 No longer bloomed primeval Eden's bowers,
Nor guardian dragons watched the Hesperian steep:
With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flowers,
Torn from the continent to glut the deep.

18 No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deigned,
Yet oft descending to the languid earth,
With quickening powers the fainting mass sustained,
And waked her slumbering atoms into birth.

19 And every echo taught my raptured name,
And every virgin breathed her amorous vows,
And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame,
Showered by the Muses, crowned my lofty brows.

20 But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride,
My Albion's favoured realms, I rose adored;
And poured my wealth, to other climes denied;
From Amalthea's horn with plenty stored.

21 Ah me! for now a younger rival claims
My ravished honours, and to her belong
My choral dances, and victorious games,
To her my garlands and triumphal song.

22 O say what yet untasted beauties flow,
What purer joys await her gentler reign?
Do lilies fairer, violets sweeter blow?
And warbles Philomel a softer strain?

23 Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise?
Does evening fan her with serener gales?
Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies,
Or wantons plenty in her happier vales?

24 Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light
Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day;
And Cynthia, riding on the car of night,
Through clouds embattled faintly wings her way.

25 Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs,
Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flower;
Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings
When silence listens at the midnight hour.

26 Nor wonder, man, that Nature's bashful face,
And opening charms, her rude embraces fear:
Is she not sprung from April's wayward race,
The sickly daughter of the unripened year?

27 With showers and sunshine in her fickle eyes,
With hollow smiles proclaiming treacherous peace,
With blushes, harbouring, in their thin disguise,
The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase?

28 Is this the fair invested with my spoil
By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command?
Ungenerous Europe! let me fly thy soil,
And waft my treasures to a grateful land;

29 Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore,
My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain;
Again to Afric's sultry sands restore
Embowering shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane:

30 Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast,
There hush to silence elemental strife;
Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost,
And swell her barren womb with heat and life.

31 Then Britain--Here she ceased. Indignant grief,
And parting pangs, her faltering tongue suppressed:
Veiled in an amber cloud she sought relief,
And tears and silent anguish told the rest.

FRANCIS FAWKES.

This 'learned and jovial parson,' as Campbell calls him, was born in 1721, in Yorkshire. He studied at Cambridge, and became curate at Croydon, in Surrey. Here he obtained the friendship of Archbishop Herring, and was by him appointed vicar of Orpington in Kent, a situation which he ultimately exchanged for the rectory of Hayes, in the same county. He translated various minor Greek poets, including Anacreon, Sappho, Bion and Moschus, Theocritus, &c. He died in 1777. His 'Brown Jug' breathes some of the spirit of the first of these writers, and two or three lines of it were once quoted triumphantly in Parliament by Sheil, while charging Peel, we think it was, with appropriating arguments from Bishop Philpotts--'Harry of Exeter.'

'Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale,
Was once Toby Philpotts,' &c.

THE BROWN JUG.

1 Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale,
(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale,)
Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul
As e'er drank a bottle, or fathomed a bowl;
In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers lie bore off the bell.

2 It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease
In his flower-woven arbour as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

3 His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug
Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale;
So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale.

JOHN LANGHORNE.

This poetical divine was born in 1735, at Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland. Left fatherless at four years old, his mother fulfilled her double charge of duty with great tenderness and assiduity. He was educated at Appleby, and subsequently became assistant at the free-school of Wakefield, took deacon's orders, and gave promise, although very young, of becoming a popular preacher. After various vicissitudes of life and fortune, and publishing a number of works in prose and verse, Langhorne repaired to London, and obtained, in 1764, the curacy and lectureship of St John's, Clerkenwell. He soon afterwards became assistant-preacher in Lincoln's Inn Chapel, where he had a very intellectual audience to address, and bore a somewhat trying ordeal with complete success. He continued for a number of years in London, maintaining his reputation both as a preacher and writer. His most popular works were the 'Letters of Theodosius and Constantia,' and a translation of Plutarch's Lives, which Wrangham afterwards corrected and improved, and which is still standard. He was twice married, and survived both his wives. He obtained the living of Blagden in Somersetshire, and in addition to it, in 1777, a prebend in the Cathedral of Wells. He died in 1779, aged only forty-four; his death, it is supposed, being accelerated by intemperance, although it does not seem to have been of a gross or aggravated description. Langhorne, an amiable man, and highly popular as well as warmly beloved in his day, survives now in memory chiefly through his Plutarch's Lives, and through a few lines in his 'Country Justice,' which are immortalised by the well- known story of Scott's interview with Burns. Campbell puts in a plea besides for his 'Owen of Carron,' but the plea, being founded on early reading, is partial, and has not been responded to by the public.

FROM 'THE COUNTRY JUSTICE.'

The social laws from insult to protect, To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, To smooth the bed of penury and pain; The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore; The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art, To aid, and bring her rover to her heart; Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell, Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm; For this the rural magistrate, of yore, Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore.

Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails, On silver waves that flow through smiling vales; In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid, Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; With many a group of antique columns crowned, In Gothic guise such, mansion have I found.

Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face, Of the more manly structures here ye view; They rose for greatness that ye never knew! Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my spleen With Venus and the Graces on your green! Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth, Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth, The shopman, Janus, with his double looks, Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books! But spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace, Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face!

Ye royal architects, whose antic taste Would lay the realms of sense and nature waste; Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, That folly only points each other way; Here, though your eye no courtly creature sees, Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the trees; Yet let not too severe a censure fall On the plain precincts of the ancient hall.

For though no sight your childish fancy meets, Of Thibet's dogs, or China's paroquets; Though apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail, And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail; Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown, The iron griffin and the sphinx of stone; And mourn, neglected in their waste abodes, Fire-breathing drakes, and water-spouting gods.

Long have these mighty monsters known disgrace, Yet still some trophies hold their ancient place; Where, round the hall, the oak's high surbase rears The field-day triumphs of two hundred years.

The enormous antlers here recall the day That saw the forest monarch forced away; Who, many a flood, and many a mountain passed, Not finding those, nor deeming these the last, O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to fly, Long ere the death-drop filled his failing eye!

Here famed for cunning, and in crimes grown old, Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold. Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight cheer, The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer, And tells his old, traditionary tale, Though known to every tenant of the vale.

Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, Marked with his weight, the mighty horns are spread: Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, Where the vast master with the vast sirloin Vied in round magnitude--Respect I bear To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair.

These, and such antique tokens that record The manly spirit, and the bounteous board, Me more delight than all the gewgaw train, The whims and zigzags of a modern brain, More than all Asia's marmosets to view, Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew.

Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast thou strayed, By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade, And seen with lionest, antiquated air, In the plain hall the magistratial chair? There Herbert sat--The love of human kind, Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind, In the free eye the featured soul displayed, Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting shade: Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw, Bend o'er her urn with many a generous fear, Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's tear; Fair equity, and reason scorning art, And all the sober virtues of the heart-- These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail Where statutes order, or where statutes fail.

Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan: Firm be your justice, but be friends to man.

He whom the mighty master of this ball We fondly deem, or farcically call, To own the patriarch's truth, however loth, Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth.

Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, Born but to err, and erring to bewail, Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, And give to life one human weakness more?

Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; Still mark the strong temptation and the need: On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, At least more lenient let thy justice fall.

For him who, lost to every hope of life, Has long with fortune held unequal strife, Known to no human love, no human care, The friendless, homeless object of despair; For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. Alike, if folly or misfortune brought Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; Believe with social mercy and with me, Folly's misfortune in the first degree.

Perhaps on some inhospitable shore The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore; Who then, no more by golden prospects led, Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed. Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain; Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery, baptized in tears!

GIPSIES.

FROM THE SAME.

The gipsy-race my pity rarely move; Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love: Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr, more; Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore.

For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves The tawny father with his offspring roves; When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, In mossy caves, where welling waters play, Fanned by each gale that cools the fervid sky, With this in ragged luxury they lie. Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again; Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, For their prophetic mother's mantle call.

Far other cares that wandering mother wait, The mouth, and oft the minister of fate! From her to hear, in evening's friendly shade, Of future fortune, flies the village-maid, Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold, And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold.

But, ah! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures! She opens not the womb of time, but yours. Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung! The parson's maid--sore cause had she to rue The gipsy's tongue; the parson's daughter too. Long had that anxious daughter sighed to know What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau, Meant by those glances which at church he stole, Her father nodding to the psalm's slow drawl; Long had she sighed; at length a prophet came, By many a sure prediction known to fame, To Marian known, and all she told, for true: She knew the future, for the past she knew.

A CASE WHERE MERCY SHOULD HAVE MITIGATED JUSTICE.

FROM THE SAME.

Unnumbered objects ask thy honest care, Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer: Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless, Unnumbered evils call for thy redress.

Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn, Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn? While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye, A few seem straggling in the evening sky! Not many suns have hastened down the day, Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their way, Since there, a scene that stained their sacred light, With horror stopped a felon in his flight; A babe just born that signs of life expressed, Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast. The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued, He had no time to waste, yet stood and viewed; To the next cot the trembling infant bore, And gave a part of what he stole before; Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear, He felt as man, and dropped a human tear.

Far other treatment she who breathless lay, Found from a viler animal of prey.

Worn with long toil on many a painful road, That toil increased by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, And all the mother thronged about her breast, The ruffian officer opposed her stay, And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, So far beyond the town's last limits drove, That to return were hopeless, had she strove; Abandoned there, with famine, pain, and cold, And anguish, she expired,--The rest I've told.

'Now let me swear. For by my soul's last sigh, That thief shall live, that overseer shall die.'

Too late!--his life the generous robber paid, Lost by that pity which his steps delayed! No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; No liberal justice first assigned the gaol, Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his tale.

SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE.

This is not the place for writing the life of the great lawyer whose awful wig has been singed by the sarcasm of Junius. He was born in London in 1723, and died in 1780. He had early coquetted with poetry, but on entering the Middle Temple he bade a 'Farewell to his Muse' in the verses subjoined. So far as lucre was concerned, he chose the better part, and rose gradually on the ladder of law to be a knight and a judge in the Court of Common Pleas. It has been conjectured, from some notes on Shakspeare published by Stevens, that Sir William continued till the end of his days to hold occasional flirtations with his old flame.

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.